


On the Shore of the Loch

by minorthirds



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, M/M, some gay pining, spoilers until Ala Mhigo, wrote this between projects at work because I'm gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorthirds/pseuds/minorthirds
Summary: The night before Ala Mhigo, Aymeric takes a walk.





	On the Shore of the Loch

Aymeric de Borel is, unfortunately, no stranger to opulence.

He would prefer it otherwise. He would prefer the Temple Knight barracks over his office and his quarters as Lord Commander, let alone the grandeur expected of his station as Lord Speaker of the House of Lords.

He is a diplomat. These positions call for posturing.

But the room he is allowed at Porta Praetoria, scarcely more than a closet with a cot, is bliss.

They are revolutionaries and revolutions have not the resources for such posturing – General Aldynn apologizes, the Ala Mhigan Resistance is embarrassed, but he will have none of it.

The Alliance is come to wage war, not vacation in the scenic Lochs of Gyr Abania.

–But for all of his nostalgia, his enjoyment of the homely comfort of the cot and oil lamp, there is an itching under his skin the eve of an operation that bids him don plainclothes – an old ramie tunic and trousers – and venture out to the shore of Loch Seld.

Naegling is at his hip. He is hardly disguised. But though they’ve eradicated the Garlean presence in all but the city itself, it would not do to turn up dead the morning of the assault.

The smell of salt is unfamiliar to him. Even Porta Praetoria, the Imperial base they’ve stolen as their own, smells of it – it’s unfamiliar, but soothing.

The wind is quiet. The water is still. Lights flicker in Ala Mhigan windows – he can see them malms away, twice-over in fact as they glitter on the surface of the loch.

Aymeric de Borel, Lord Speaker of the House of Lords and Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard, leans against the rippled rock face that’s so unique to Gyr Abania and just… exists.

Against his better judgment, he closes his eyes. The better to take in the moment, when his soul is at peace, bereft of all the posturing and duties that weigh his person.

He is weak like this. Vulnerable. Without armor.

In the silent moment he cannot escape his lonesomeness.

The lack of a presence by his side.

A presence that –

A soft crunch. Footsteps on the salty sand.

Aymeric’s muscles bunch and tense. His shoulders set.

Now is not the time for someone to see him like –

When his eyes open his breath leaves his chest a yawning cavern, stolen away by the sight of the starlight on silver, the white salt-sand against dark armor.

His jaw is slack.

(This is the most telling. He is always tucking words under his tongue.)

“So,” Estinien says, his boots leaving prints in the salt-sand as they would in snow. “Sightseeing when you should be resting. It’s not like you to shirk your duties.”

Aymeric need not respond.

Estinien knows this, has always known this – that the greatest relief to this man of roles and titles and masks is that  _ he need not respond. _

So Aymeric is silent, because he has no words – only fondness in his eyes – and with this, this moment of quietude, everything is as it was.

The moment of his nostalgia is fulfilled.

As much as he has longed for the days before his titles he has not permitted himself to countenance the underlying ache. The lonesomeness. The void at his side that has only grown as each responsibility added to his shoulders puts another wall between them.

For a moment it is as it was – their moments of companionable quietude sitting side by side at the watch-fire, at the stoop of their barracks, in solitary corners of the Pillars after hours when duties permit.

Aymeric cannot help himself. He is weak. He is vulnerable.

“I have missed you,” he says softly, “old friend.”

“I know.”

The response is so unequivocally  _ Estinien  _ that it takes Aymeric’s breath away again.

Halone, had his chest always ached this much at the sound of the dragoon’s voice?

Estinien picks a spot of cliff face barely a yalm apart from Aymeric to lean against, like a stony sentinel but for once bare-faced, to the world no longer a different man than he is under the armor.

His travels have brought him some measure of peace.

Aymeric knows the set of Estinien’s brow and mouth as one would know their childhood home.

The Eyes yet burden him, but… they no longer consume him.

( _ Halone,  _ Aymeric prays right then in silence.  _ Let this man be absolved of his guilt. _ )

Estinien Wyrmblood’s silver hair billows in the gentle breeze that picks up in the quiet.

Aymeric de Borel lets himself watch.

(Once upon a time the sight of Estinien’s bare face was a privilege. The helm that hid his visage came off only in trusted company, and the naked emotion of Estinien’s face, for lack of necessity not near as schooled as Aymeric’s, was something to enjoy the honesty of.

Nowadays his expressions are less open. Aymeric can’t read him.

It’s a challenge he wants to surmount.)

“In the event,” Estinien says slowly, as if he is loath to break the silence, “that the boy is without the company of the Warrior of Light…”

Aymeric tilts his head, bidding him silently to ask the favor.

“Watch out for him,” the ex-Azure Dragoon asks, looking out across the loch at the walls of Ala Mhigo looming in the distance. “Please.”

The Lord Commander needs no further explanation.

Alphinaud Leveilleur’s attraction to danger will surely lead him to the front lines, both as a skilled chirurgeon and as a shrewd tactician. Estinien’s place is not in the battle – Aymeric knows why he is here, and knows that as much as he wishes to help the man with his self-appointed task… Ishgard needs him more. The Alliance needs him more.

He is Estinien’s first, though no longer only, friend. And Estinien is  _ his  _ dearest friend.

But their burdens are not the same. Estinien’s sins are not Aymeric’s to absolve.

“I will,” Aymeric promises, though Estinien need not have asked. Whatever measure he must take to see each and every line washed from Estinien’s brow, he will, to his dying day.

Estinien Wyrmblood does not say  _ thank you _ . But the shift of his weight, the relaxation of his shoulders, speaks it as clearly as words to Aymeric.

They will prepare for their respective roles tomorrow.

But for now –

For now Aymeric shifts an ilm closer to Estinien and wishes it could be more.

For now Estinien lets his lance rest against the ground and the hard line of his mouth soften.

For now the morning’s operation looms as far away as the war did when they sat side by side in an Ishgardian garden, swapping stories or enjoying the peace.

And when they go to battle, Aymeric will search the skies for a falling lance, each coat of armor for the dragoon’s spired pauldrons.

_ And beyond? _

And the future beyond the battle they will face one step at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gay


End file.
